8 Ways For Jane Rizzoli To Say I Love You
by Lonewolf.007
Summary: Three little words made up of eight little letters that change a person's life. When do you say it? Where do you say it? How do you say it? - COMPLETE


_**A/N:**__ A one-shot that just wouldn't leave my head, inspired by a post on thoughtcatalog titled "8 Ways To Say I Love You". You can google it and check it out, before or after doesn't matter, but if you don't want to know what happens before reading this little fanfic, then I suggest doing it after :)_

_Jane's POV, 2nd person. I rarely write in 2nd person, but it seemed to fit, because then I could get into Jane's head, AND because it seemed to work with the inspiring post._

_Hope you like it!_

_**Disclaimer:** Characters belong to Tess Gerritsen and TNT, I just borrowed them for the Rizzles we all wish we could see :)_

* * *

One.

You sit on the couch in your dark living room, a bottle of Johnnie Walker on your coffee table, and a shot glass beside it. The sky outside is black and sprinkled with stars that you don't see, but you're not interested anyway. It's been a long week, and now… now you finally have a moment to yourself and you take it.

Your mind begins to wander, and inevitably, it strays to thoughts of the beautiful woman you're lucky enough to call your girlfriend.

Maura Isles.

The words are sweet on your lips and you say them again. _Maura Isles_. You can almost taste the name, savouring the way it rolls off your tongue and drops from your lips.

You wonder what she's doing now. Close your eyes and see her bending down to pat Bass's shell, offering him a last strawberry before moving off around the house to check all the doors and windows are locked. You taught her to do that, to make sure that everything was locked up tight. Safe. You do it whenever you stay over at her place, and she finds it endearing. You see her checking the front door, before turning to go upstairs, to bed. She'll take exactly twenty-seven minutes going through her nightly rituals: showering, brushing her teeth, and all the other little things Maura does. You know this because you timed it last time you were there. Then she'll climb into bed, but she won't go to sleep yet. She'll sit on her side of the bed even though you aren't there, under the covers with a medical text in hand. She'll read until she's tired and fall asleep. But before she goes to sleep, she'll send you a goodnight text, or maybe even call you, and you'll listen to each other breathing down the line until you both drift off.

A little part of you wonders why you aren't over there right now, but deep down you know. You look at the bottle sitting on the table in front of you, and you reach out to pour yourself another shot of amber liquid. You throw it back and feel the liquid burn down your throat, the smoky taste of peat left in your mouth.

You don't break out the hard stuff often. Normally a beer or two is good, but tonight you need the liquid courage, and you look at the phone sitting next to you again. Half the bottle's gone, and somewhere in the back of your hazy mind you know that's the reason you're even contemplating doing this, but the alcohol's working its magic and you can feel your inhibitions slipping away.

Tonight, Johnnie is your friend, and you knock back another shot as you watch the moon through your window making it's stately way across the sky.

You reach out with a fumbling hand for the little piece of metal that can connect you to everyone you care about with a few swipes. You manage to catch the time – 2:04am – on your phone screen before your fingers move clumsily over it, bringing up the number that resides on your speed dial. You know she's asleep, you got her goodnight text two hours ago, and it runs through your head again, Maura's sweet voice sounding in your ears. You wait for the ringing on the other end to stop, wait to hear Maura's recorded message asking you to please leave a message, with a promise of trying to get back to you as soon as possible. One of your hands fiddle with the shot glass, your head spinning from that last shot you had.

There's a short beep on the other hand and the words slip past your lips without thinking, coming out in an almost guttural growl. It's harsh and scratchy, all the more raw because of the whiskey you've been downing all night. The words slip out and when you realise you can't take them back you panic, hanging up immediately. You drop the phone like it's poisonous, and grab Johnnie by the neck, gulping down the last of the liquid like you think it might be able to wash what you just did away.

You're not sure how, but you fall asleep, and next thing you know you have a thundering headache, and the light's poking you hard in both eyes. You try and shield your face from the beams of sunshine that stream in through the window, curtains open because you never bothered to close them last night. It only takes you a second to remember, and you cringe in horror. Your gut twists and you berate yourself for your stupidity last night. Thankfully it's Saturday and unless there's a call you won't have to go in until Monday.

But then you realise that you have plans with Maura later today. For a second you contemplate lying and telling her you're sick. But you know that won't work and she'll see right through you. So you bite your tongue and wait. Hoping desperately that she doesn't get it. That she forgets.

* * *

Two.

Kissing Maura Isles is just about your favourite thing in the whole wide world.

You wonder for the seventy-hundred-and-forty-second time how someone like you – a blue collar homicide detective – managed to get this lucky. How a brilliant, beautiful, stylish and classy woman like Maura could ever be attracted to you.

You deepen the kiss, desperate to show her how much you care, how much she means to you. She's your whole life, and you don't know what you would do without her. Your hands are buried in glorious golden locks, pulling her closer, cradling her against you as you kiss her with every ounce of feeling you possess.

The sound of her soft sighs and moans almost drive you wild; you can't believe you're the one drawing those sounds out of her. Her hands are wrapped around your neck, her lips moving against yours in perfect rhythm, because both of you just click with each other in a way that defies explanation. Another sound slips out of Maura's mouth into yours, and you swallow it, relishing the way it feels to have her hum against your lips, feeling the sound vibrate in you and through you.

You lose yourself in the moment, in this kiss, because it's a hundred shades of perfection, like every other kiss you've ever shared with the woman in your arms. It's times like this that make you wish you could freeze time and live in it forever. No worries about anything, just you and her in your own wonderful bubble.

Your hand slowly rubs down her back, and the words come out, semi-purposeful. But as if your mind knew what it was about to do, it kept enough of its wits about that you didn't completely give yourself away. Your lips barely moved with the admission, all of it coming out in a whoosh of air, almost like a sigh of ecstasy. For a hundredth of a second, you're sure you feel Maura pause, and in that hundredth of a second you panic, but the moment passes and you continue to revel in each other's affections.

It really could've just been a sigh of ecstasy.

* * *

Three.

You feel nervous as you walk the familiar path to her front door. You know it's completely stupid – you've been on dates with Maura dozens of times now, not including all the outing you had together when you were still just friends. This is nothing new, but even so, you feel your palms getting a little sweaty and your throats a little dry as you clear your throat and knock on the door.

She appears in a second, opening the door wide and beaming at you. Even though your insides are squirming with nerves, you can't help grinning right back at her, because she's Maura and she's wonderful.

You hold out the flowers and the little bag of fudge clusters that you know Maura loves, and her face lights up. She accepts your gifts and gives you a lingering kiss in return. Then she takes your arm and walks with you back to your car, asking you where it is you're taking her the whole way.

You get to the fancy French restaurant in no time at all, and gently lead Maura in. The insides are all tastefully decorated, flaunting its expensiveness in the most discreet fashion possible. You wonder briefly if high-end restaurant owners do some sort of course that teaches them how to show off without appearing to do so. Next thing you know you're sitting at a table set out for two, and Maura's looking at you with light concern.

You brush off her question about whether you're alright or not, and try and distract her with the menu. It seems to work, and you both have fun picking which dishes you want, you intentionally mispronouncing every single name just to hear the warm laughter from the woman sitting across from you.

But throughout the rest of the night, you can't help tugging at you collar every now and again, or rubbing the scars in your hands, especially when there's a lull in conversation. You try and keep your nerves from showing but it's a lost cause because you can't ever keep anything hidden from Maura. She picks up on your anxiety, and it starts to have an effect on her too. You can see the look of uncertainty in her eyes, the way she clasps her hands together. Feel her watching you, and you hate that you're making her feel like that. Like she has anything to be worried about.

You hate that you can't get the words out, that you can't just say the one thing you _know_ is the truest thing in your entire life. You look at this entire set up and almost laugh, because even though you've done this a million times with Maura – going out to dinner at a nice restaurant – you've acted like it was different. You're so nervous it wouldn't have been strange to have you get down on one knee and present her with a ring, let alone simply admitting the simple fact that's been waiting to come out for years now.

* * *

Four.

The sound of her breathing is something you'll never get tired of. Your arm wrapped around her, her head resting in that spot between your neck and shoulder. You can feel her breath against your skin, and your fingers draw little patterns onto her skin as you watch the gentle rise and fall of Maura's chest.

Your eyes take in all of Maura, the moonlight bright enough to illuminate her features. Eyes closed, her face is relaxed, free of make-up and close enough so that you can see the light freckles on her skin. You follow the trail down her nose – which you love, especially when she scrunches it up – to her lips, which are curved ever so slightly in a half smile. You wonder how anyone can look so angelic and innocent and beautiful in their sleep.

Taking a deep breath, you inhale that heady aroma of coconut body wash, fruity shampoo, and something sweeter than both of those that comes from Maura herself. You could live off that wonderful scent, feeling comforted by it. It's as much a reassurance that Maura is here with you as her warmth against your body.

It's dark and silent, and maybe it's because of this that you find the burst of courage. But even so, you take the time to listen to her breathing, counting the seconds between each one to make sure that she's asleep. You take a moment longer to just listen to every inhale and exhale, then whisper the words in her ear.

When she moves you shut your eyes tight, before remembering to relax enough so that it looks like you're asleep. You can feel her moving a little in your arms, leaning a little closer to you, but you don't move, or make a sound. Instead you focus on your breathing, making sure it's slow enough and deep enough to pass off as sleep. Almost as if you can see through your eyelids, you know her eyes are open, head tilted towards you. But you don't make a sound and after a while, you feel her drift off again in your arms. Maybe you were sleep-talking.

* * *

Five.

If you went back in time to tell past you that you would dance in the kitchen with the woman of your dreams, past you would have sucker-punched you in the jaw.

Yet here you are, grinning like a fool as you get your groove on with Maura in the kitchen while in the middle of making that famous gnocchi recipe that Ma finally gave you. In fact, she never really gave it to you so much as she gave it to Maura. You feigned offence at the time, but honestly you were over the moon about it all.

You're not even sure how it started, though you'd bet everything you had that Maura made you do it. She could make you do anything, and this is a perfect example. Because you don't dance. Not for your family, not for your friends. Not for anyone. But you dance for Maura. And you dance with Maura, both of you laughing and giggling as you twirl Maura around an imaginary dance floor. You're not great at the whole dancing feet, and you feel like you've got two left feet next to Maura, but you don't care cause it's Maura, and you're having more fun than you can ever remember having – at least since the last time you and Maura did something like this. Maybe last week. Or three nights ago. Last night.

Who are you kidding, every second with Maura is the best second of your life, and you feel _giddy _with happiness, though you'd never admit it.

The song's playing in the background but you're hardly paying it any attention to it, too busy watching Maura, and the way she laughed, the way she moved. She reaches for your hands, entwining your fingers together and pulling you closer so that you're standing body to body. You can hear her humming along to the music as she loops her arms around your neck, looking into your eyes deeply. You never realised eyes could be so beautiful until you looked into Maura's. More than once you've caught yourself looking into them and trying to decide exactly what colour it is. It's hazel, but sometimes there was more green than brown, and at others it was the other way around.

Those hazel eyes are staring into yours right now, and everything seems to fade. And the next thing you know, your lips are moving without your permission, and you rush to fix it, the addendum coming half a beat late.

"… when we do this."

You clear your throat and shuffle your feet, hands still holding onto her hips. You give her a half-hearted grin, and take half a step back, before turning around and shaking your booty. You hear the musical sound of her laugh and breathe a little easier, but you can feel her eyes on you for the rest of the night, asking the question that never crosses her lips.

* * *

Six.

This is stupid. You sit there at the counter top in your kitchen, a new blank sheet of paper in front of you and an overflowing wastepaper bucket at your feet. You know without looking that the street outside is set aglow with the lamps that do their best to beat back the blackness of the night. You know the clock probably reads past midnight, but you're not on call, and Maura's coming over to spend the day with you at your place anyway.

You pick up the pen again and glare at the whiteness of the sheet in front of you. It looks so clean and unblemished and perfect until you touch it with your pen. How do you get the words in your heart down your arm, into the pen and out onto paper? If only there was a way to latch it directly to your brain, so that everything you're feeling would just appear there.

With a sigh, you toss the pen down and make your way to the fridge. You grab a beer and pop the top off with a bottle opener – you smile when you realise that Maura has really rubbed off on you, making you do things the "civilised" way.

Cold beer in hand, you sit back down on your seat and begin to write.

The words come out and they don't stop. The minutes tick by and your hand moves across the page, only pausing every now and again as you take another swig of amber liquid. You turn the page over onto its back and keep going, your messy scrawl covering the page in a surprisingly methodical way.

When you sign the thing off, you glance over the page, and think you may have gone a little overboard. Some of the stuff sounds almost comical, knowing it came from you, because it almost seems overly dramatic. You fold it up anyway and stick it in an envelope, sealing it with a grimace; you never liked the taste of that envelope glue. Toss it onto the table, and worry about it in the morning. Your eyes are scratchy with tiredness, and you shuffle to bed.

When your eyes crack open, it's already nine. You stretch, and look forward to spending the day with Maura. She had to run a few errands at the precinct, just some paperwork or something, so you have the morning to yourself. When you finally struggle out of bed and walk into the kitchen, your eyes instantly find the white envelope on the table, and you remember what it holds.

The relaxed feeling from earlier is gone, and you begin to worry about it. What do you do with it? Where should you put it? Everything forgotten, you hold the envelope in your hands, treating it somewhere between a first born baby and a ticking bomb. You look around, eyes sliding over every surface and crevice in your apartment.

A coat catches your eye. It's Maura's coat, the one she left here from the last time she was over here. Maybe you should put it in her pocket. But you don't. Maybe you should put it in the kitchen cupboard, propped against her favourite mug that she always uses for your special hot cocoa that you make her whenever she stays the night (she'd never touch your instant coffee if she could help it). But you don't. Maybe you should stick it on her pillow on her side of the bed. But you don't.

Instead, you walk over to the bin and dump it in there, face up with Maura's name scrawled across it in your messy handwriting. And you forget about it.

That night you sit on your couch, feet propped up on the table and arm wrapped around the adorable woman that's snuggling into your side as you watch a rom-com that you would, to anyone else, claim to absolutely despise, but with Maura find it tolerable, even enjoyable. You have to admit a lot of it had to do with the little kisses and snuggles and snatches of conversation you two share every now and again.

You feel her stir, and reluctantly let go when she stands up, holding her wine glass up to tell you that she's getting a refill. You nod and take the moment to yawn and stretch while she's gone.

Five minutes pass before you start wondering what's taking her so long, and you look over your shoulder to see what's going on. But before you can turn all the way around, arms wrap around your neck from behind, and Maura feeds you a pretzel. You grin and kiss her, the momentary anxiety fading away like it had never been.

It's only later, at three in the morning when you pad into the kitchen on silent feet to grab a glass of water that you realise that little white envelope is gone. Your mouth goes dry even though you've just finished the glass of water, and you quietly make your way back to your bedroom to look at the sleeping woman lying there. After a minute, you crawl back in next to her, wrapping your long arms around her warm body and kissing her lightly on the forehead.

In the morning she doesn't say a word about it as you both get ready for work. She doesn't bring it up when you go down to the morgue to visit her. You know she's read it, but you wonder if she knows you mean it.

* * *

Seven.

Fear.

Ice cold, throat-constricting, bone-melting fear.

You can't think, you can't function, because your whole world feels like it's spiralling out of control. The phone in your hand seems so innocuous now, the line dead. But the message has been delivered and everything's falling away.

Then suddenly your mind becomes crystal clear, or as clear as it can be with the wailing panic sirens ringing in your ears. You charge out the door, running down the stairs and clearing the final six in a single bound. Two steps and you're out the door, a click and a thud later, you're behind the wheel. You flick the sirens on and screech away from the curb, the only thought in your mind being of her. Your fingers are white on the steering wheel.

You don't know how much time has passed, but you swerve around a corner and the scene comes into view. With the precise memory you've honed over the years as a detective, you catalogue everything instantly, automatically.

An ambulance. Two police cars. The wreckage that stood in the middle of the ordinary suburban street, like a hideous beast borne from the depths of a mechanical hell. And the two medics and three officers grouped around something on the ground. Someone.

Your voice cries out, a mangled yell of anger, terror and panic, and you sprint towards them. You have to know, have to see…

One of the medics stand up, about to try and stop you or something, but you would've have pushed him aside without a second thought if one of the officers hadn't tell him it was alright. The people all seem to back away a little, except for the medic on the ground, calmly assessing a shoulder.

And there's Maura.

She looks up at you and instantly reaches a hand up, but you see her grimace in pain and you drop to your knees, drinking the sight of her in as a huge sob bursts out of you. And her palm is against your cheek, and she's murmuring reassurances, but you don't pay the words any attention, only revelling in the fact that she's here, that she's alive. You reach your own hands out, taking her face in them and staring into those glorious hazel eyes that you were almost afraid you'd never see again. You kiss her, and she kisses you back, and you can't help the tears of relief that leak out of your eyes. You feel her brush them away with a thumb, and you push your face into her palm, desperate for that touch, after you were so close to losing it.

Finally you stay there, resting your forehead against hers, just listening to the sound of her breathing. You both inhale and exhale at the same time, and every single breath is like a breath of life. And as the adrenaline pumps through your veins, you tell her how much she means to you, tell her how afraid you were, how scary it was that you might have lost her. And in that moment you realise just how close you were to having to live without her, and the thought is so wrong that you feel sick.

She whispers reassurances into your ear, her hands covering your shaking ones as she tells you again and again that she's alright, that it's just a few cuts and scrapes, the worst being an ankle injury. She tells you she's fine, that she's okay, and your heart rate finally begins to slow to something that almost resembles the normal heart rate of a person who had just run a 42 kilometre marathon.

You feel yourself calming down at last, and you begin to take in all the details that you missed earlier when you first appeared on the scene. Your eyes notice the white bandages on Maura's shoulder and leg first, but she strokes your cheek and whispers "don't" before you can say anything. You swallow and nod, giving her another chaste kiss, reassured by the firm warmth and sweetness of her.

You look up.

And your stomach twists when you look at the wreck more carefully, the two cars that had collided with enough force that they seemed to meld together. You see that Maura's Prius took the brunt of it from the opposite front corner to Maura, and thank your lucky stars for it. The other car's driver would have had it much worse. It was clear that the other car had lost all control when it ended up spinning around and smashing into Maura's. The impact had been taken by the other car's right front side, and you shudder. Maura tells you that the other driver had already been taken to the hospital in critical condition. You're just grateful it wasn't Maura.

You follow the ambulance to the hospital, and stay by Maura's side the whole night.

* * *

Eight.

You're exhausted.

You drag your feet up the familiar path to the front door, and fumble for the keys in your pocket. After trying twice, you finally get the right one, and crack the door open. Yawning, you step inside, hanging your coat up like she always tells you too, and kicking your boots off to leave by the door. On sock-clad feet, you pad towards the light in the kitchen, where you can hear music playing, and the sound and smell of good cooking wafts towards you. Even though everything hurts and your face feels stiff, you break out in a grin, because you know what waits for you inside.

Maura's wearing her apron, supervising a pot on the stove with her hands on her hips, a wooden spoon grasped in one hand. She hears you and turns around, her own smile spreading across her face. In three strides, you close the distance and wrap your arms around her waste from behind, inhaling deeply and savouring the scents coming from both Maura and the pot.

"I made your favourite. I know you had a rough day today."

You wonder how you ever got this lucky.

No, well and truly. And you know you'll ask yourself the same question every single day for the rest of you life, because Maura Isles may not be absolutely and completely perfect, with her non-stop genius brain and her ever-literal interpretations and her crazy factual spiels – but no one is ever _that_ perfect – but she's _your_ brand of perfect, and all those things about her make you love her more.

You kiss her on the back of her neck, then snuggle your face into that crook between her neck and shoulder, smiling against her skin. And you say it.

"I love you."

The moment the words leave your mouth, you feel… happy. There's no regret, no second guessing, no fear at all. It just feels so… right. Because you're voicing the truth, the same truth that you have known for years now, and it was stupid not saying it, and you almost want to berate yourself for not saying it sooner. You wonder how it's taken you so long to get here, but you push that thought away, focusing only on the fact that you have finally said it. And that you mean it, with every fibre of your being.

"What?"

Her voice is a breath, and you can't see her face, but you could hear it in that single word. Like she was unsure, second-guessing herself, and you despise yourself for making her wait to hear those words, because she deserves to hear them every day.

You turn her around, and grasp her hands gently, letting your fingers slip between hers and squeezing them. You look into those beautiful, beautiful hazel eyes, and say the words again, careful to make sure she hears it, sees it, for what it is. Understands that you really mean it.

"I love you."

And as the words trip past your lips like the easiest, but deepest, most meaningful thing in the world, her eyes light up. She's been waiting to hear those words from day one. You say it again, because suddenly it feels like you need to make up for never saying it directly to her before. Because even though she knows it, she _must_ know it, how much you love her, you have never said it to her face before, and if there was a single person in this entire existence who deserved to never have a doubt, to hear those three little words, it was Maura Isles. And damn it, you'll never give her reason to doubt that you love her ever again.

You open your mouth, and then she's kissing you, and you murmur it into her lips, like you did once long ago, but this time, she knows it for sure, there's no question. Between each little kiss, and each longer one, you whisper it, and your heart swells with each utterance and your astounded by how good it feels to say it. You're not sure how long you two kiss for, but you don't really care until Maura finally pulls back to look into your eyes again. One hand on your cheek, her thumb strokes it, and you find yourself feeling nervous all of sudden. But almost as soon as it begins, it disappears, because Maura's looking at you like that and you already know.

But she says it anyway, and your heart damn near explodes with happiness.

"I love you too."


End file.
